There was a nip in the air. Some may call it a frozen point of time. We only felt a warm suffusing feeling surge through our bodies. Snow clung to our eyelashes, curling inwards to stay warm. Not for long of course, as it would melt and trickle down as tepid water. The streets were soulless, twisting and winding with buildings huddled together to stay snug. The pebble stones of Europe, forming delicious curves as lovers’ feet grind against them and with tourists’ enthusiastic tread, were not visible under the thick blanket of snow. Lush, deep and virginal, it looked from afar like a down feather comforter; you could tuck your toes in and wriggle under, dreaming of spring blossoms.

Perhaps it was a stretch to think we would fuel our love in the dead of winter. But marriages in Mumbai happen in balmy breezes and some may say the true test of romance is to kindle fires in the bitter cold. Discovering the dark history of the Continent under the beating sun of summer was for philistines. The ones with character and mettle surrounded themselves with the reflecting light of gas lamps that looked hazy in the crackling air. The pink blush that crept into our cheeks, the rosy-blue temper of our lips, and the slow embrace to beat the diving temperature battled desire and made way for an old-world romance.

We began to imagine a life on the calmer side of Prague’s Malá Strana. On the Charles Bridge, 30 baroque statues towered broodingly, and the Gothic shadows fell long on those evocative 500 metres, telling tales of darker times. There had been blood on the walls, there had been lovers who held hands, until the bridge, which was meant to forge ties, separated them. It described a time of mystery and madness; moments of furore. The placid mise en scene belied this, but the mind knew better. The heart beat faster, keeping pace with the pounding feet as the lovers were chased by naysayers. The silence around was deafening. If only the waves of River Vltava would crash mercilessly to calm the heart. If the world made noise, the mind could be silent. Summer was a pretence. A pretence to understand the truth of a city. It was sunshine and flowers and happy, smiling people. They all returned to their broken lives. In the harshness of winter the gaps were visible, the thoughts flooded in, mending what could not be ignored. There was nothing to hide behind. You faced the music in silence.

It was not always silent in Prague. If the opera house sang a tune, then the fervent chatter at the Christmas markets spun yarns. Stories of people’s lives, of cheer, of celebrated moments over hot mulled wine floated through the-Romanesque-making-sweet-love-to-the-Gothic 10th-century Old Town square in metaphysical abandon. Turning the pages of time via Josefov (the Jewish quarter), the 14th-century Wenceslas Square or Church of Our Lady before Týn along the way. The Prague Castle, the seat of the Holy Roman Empire, Czechoslovakia and now the Czech Republic, where the Bohemian crown jewels reside, had etchings in stone that you could see with your mind’s eye; Saint Vitus Cathedral held silhouettes in its arms. Standing at the gates outside, taking in the spired city that had been enveloped in white to depict a false sense of innocence, you saw the grey in the hidden courtyards of the cobbled alleys.

Our fingers curled together, knitting patterns on the rough wooden table. Our breaths came out in steamy bursts, condensation clung to our lips. We were lovers from the turn of the 20th century, escaping reality for a few moments into the golden age of beautiful Budapest through its coffee houses like the Művész that we wandered into. Or the overt passion of a kert, an open-air ‘ruin pub’ that demands that you huddle together. Close enough that your mind stopped thinking. Enough to lead you to one of Budapest’s ‘secret’ thermal baths fed by natural springs to help you cool off, topped off with Gellért’s thermal spa to rejuvenate and prepare for another day. Perhaps a day that could be lived in contemporary times, where Nobu would play truant with Buddha-Bar, where we drank ourselves into deep inebriation and whispered the night away.

The Danube severed the large city, but it seemed whole. Like the marriage of two individuals with very distinct personalities. The castle district on one side of the Danube had many stories to speak of, but we could only see the chapters through the monuments, or while making our way, hand-in-hand, through the 2,200 metres of the Szemlõhegyi caves riddled with mineral precipitations. You couldn’t miss the bullet holes and shrapnel etched on buildings, or the sharpness of the Hungarian art on display at the National Gallery in Buda Castle (accessed by a funicular ride), even as the castle gates’ menacing black figures in wrought iron gazed watchfully as you dared to enter. And yet, the city had mellowed. It glowed with a quiet dignity, as you stood on one of its eight bridges, staring into the deceptive darkness with lights liberally splattered like war paint, glittering like a bejewelled bride, ready to come into her own.

She held me close. We swirled in silence. Her head only reached my chin, but we fit. I imagined the ballerinas pirouetting gracefully last night. In the peak of winter, the opera houses opened up in all their grandeur. The best artistes swung into action, the lights shone bright, the opulence of the performing chambers was larger than life. This was not the touristy show of the summer, this was art. At the Hungarian State Opera House a story that told the tale of a better time unfolded. Or worse, depending on how you looked at it. And then, we were on the city ice rink. Even as the beautiful castle tried desperately to throw a reflection on the brittle surface riddled by skating figures, I knew the city couldn’t hold a candle to my love at first site: Prague. As Franz Kafka imagined it, perhaps while sitting in Cafe Milena, ‘Prague never lets you go. This dear little mother has sharp claws.’

We walked the 1,940 metres of Dubrovnik’s walls, the first of which were built in the 9th century. It usually takes about two hours, it took us six. Not because we fought against the throngs of the summer tourists; rather, the car-free streets were achingly bare as the locals had long left the historical old town for the modern suburbs. It made room for moments of passion that snuck into fortified medieval corners, cold baroque buildings, against darkened glass storefronts that were shrouded with our steamy breath, under spindly naked branches that shivered with passion and showered a cascade of white dust on us. Melting fast on your face as you held her close. As you parted and found your jacket soaked. We were drawn into the Dubrovnik Winter festival, filled with the pulsating beats that mirrored our pulses, food that satiated the senses but never the gnawing hunger inside, and a continuation of the mulled wine journey that flowed like blood in our veins. Or the rich sounds from the Dubrovnik Symphony Orchestra, for culture had nothing to do with beaches and sun tans, and bonds are forged over the soaring notes of classical harmony. Perhaps there were those who were looking for King’s Landing, but there was another song of ice and fire that we experienced, and it had nothing to do with games or thrones.

Set inside a Napoleonic fort near the city’s cable-car station, a permanent exhibition in the war museum is dedicated to the siege of Dubrovnik during the Homeland War of the 1990s, where the local defenders stationed inside the fort ensured the city wasn’t captured. The walls of Dubrovnik may be strong and thick, but the turrets and towers also had aching stories to tell, as long as you stood and listened. Moments of war and peace, moments of passion that died, and lives lived to the fullest.

High above the city in the cable car, we took in the twinkling lights in silence. No jostling crowds, just us. Lonely in our togetherness. Through this mystical honeymoon, we spoke, and we remained quiet. We found a comfort in knowing that we don’t know. We accepted reality, we knew we would go back to find ourselves, fill in the gaps. After all, we were women of the world.

When a well-meaning but slightly bitchy mother asked me, ‘What did you do on the holiday?’, I tried to explain the multiple dimensions of ‘nothing’ and ‘absolutely nothing’ without launching into a philosophical explanation. But ‘nothing’ somehow isn’t good enough, it isn’t satisfying. Can a EUR25,000 holiday be justified with ‘nothing’ to show for it besides a couple of fridge magnets and boarding pass stubs?

Having survived trips with some serious holiday Nazis, my husband and I have decided that we are not cut out for vacations ruled by checklists. And with cultivated practice, neither is our nearly-seven-year-old daughter Samaira. When she was a year-and-a-half, we spent a fortnight on a beach in Goa to a rhythm driven entirely by mood, with regular meals, books and showers thrown in. We stayed put at the hotel, without venturing anywhere—not even to that seafood shack everyone was ‘peri-peri-ing’ about. But, we returned home entirely refreshed and with the perfect tan—neither of which should be taken lightly.

After a hectic city life filled with the kiddie social circus of playdates, BFF parties, birthday bashes and NRI visits (all of which require the perfect tan) I’ve realised that the only holiday to write home about is the one with no agenda. The one where you do nothing.

<It’s more than that though, it’s our inherent attitude towards learning. The belief that only within rigid boundaries do we achieve; but I counter, only with a lack of boundaries do we have the space to create.> And so, from experience, I suggest ways to do ‘nothing’ rather effectively:

Age 2: On the grass by the lake, SalzburgWe walked the same roads often, strolling and taking in the beauty of the landscape, creating a sense of belonging in an unfamiliar city. We stumbled upon a playground right by the lake, with an old tyre for a swing. Parking our stroller there, we watched her play for hours, jumping and crawling, swinging and singing. Not wanting to put a time limit on freedom, we walked over to the town and brought back a picnic lunch in a nondescript paper bag. We sat on the embankment, lay on the grass and caught the few rays of sunshine on a cloudy afternoon. She felt like a child out of an Enid Blyton book, minus the pet. Sandwiches, cheese, lemonade, chocolate. Ducks that came to be fed. Memories that contain the joy of play that is not timebound, set to the music of the hills.

Age 3: The home life, Suburban AmericaA month in the States, and there was no ‘plan’. It was as simple as (or as much as) exploring the local preschool summer activities, playing games in the backyard, tending to the organic garden with her own watering can, going grocery shopping, walking in the woods, checking out the local strawberry festival and the butterfly farm, playing mini-golf, bicycling down leafy lanes, helping make meals, loading the dishwasher… Somehow they all served to foster spirit and maturity that Disney world cannot.

From the latter, you may enjoy the rides (that take an hour’s wait to get onto), bring back the toys and pleasant memories, but it’s a world of incredible make-believe. But by exposing them to a real-life environment that fosters independence in day-to-day skills, you allow them to explore a backyard filled with stories and mysteries of the imagination.

Age 4: People watching, LisbonIn the long hours of summer, cafes on those cobbled streets were bursting with an eclectic mix of people. It seemed a shame to bypass the moment and rush off to the next place on the itinerary. Strong coffee, luscious berry tarts and people make for the perfect mix. We talked about a local shop that we liked, the street artist that appeared unable to take a bathroom break as he stood in the sweltering heat slathered with silver paint. We watched the birds swoop by and peck at tea-cake crumbles. We observed the American family that wore pearls and boat shoes together, and the Asian one that stared at their mobile phones together.

We tried to explain to our daughter why the two men—one scruffy and rather unwashed, and the other boho-chic—were holding hands, whispering sweet nothings and about to kiss. We thought of ways to tackle questions about marriage and babies with enough truth and enough circumspection. We watched her throw pennies into the water fountain, and talked about the significance and history of the buildings. People came and went, and we watched others who watched, taking a leaf out of the book of the best old-world artists and writers. We talked, mused, we stayed silent. Thoughts were built, explored and connected to new ones.

Age 5: Gallery observations, BudapestA small travelling exhibit of a retrospective of Picasso’s art drew us in. We thought we could jet in and out quickly. I kept the folks waiting in the cafe as I took my daughter to check it out. She washed her hands off Picasso fairly quickly, but decided that Hungarian art deserved a bit more attention. War-torn moments, installations and gigantic abstract canvases caught her eye, and we spent five hours inside the National Gallery, where I had planned to spend 15 minutes. Children seem to have more interest in modern or abstract art than figurative art, perhaps. The lack of form allows them to draw from their imagination, which figurative art would perhaps limit them from doing. Sitting on those gallery benches, feeling like a moment out of The Thomas Crown Affair, helped rest my tired limbs and let her mind roam free.

Age 6: Cruise control, The Adriatic SeaEvery morning we would wake with anticipation of a new bit of land that would magically appear before us. Discovering a different country each day was an exciting experience, but cruises can be as hectic or peaceful as you would like them to be. With daily ports of call do you jam yourself in the routine of getting out, exploring and returning only to start the process all over again the next day? As we watched the hordes of travellers line up to ‘see’ the town and all its neighbouring heritage spots, we took a call—to not join them. We would begin with a leisurely breakfast on a nearly-empty ship, chatting with the crew that hailed from all parts of the world. Eventually, we would step out for a couple of hours to grab a light lunch or coffee in the town, drawing the locals into a conversation and keeping an eye out for an authentic home-grown boutique that stood out from the mass of chain stores.

Way before departure time, we would turn back, giving my daughter downtime in the balcony to sketch the day’s observations (while we Instagrammed), before the others arrived exhausted but replete with stories to tell back home. We had no stories; just flights of fancy, moods of a town captured through its locals and tourists, little streets or a Church explored. She had a point, after all, when she observed, ‘Mamma, all the ‘old towns’ look the same’.

Published in Verve Magazine, September 2016
Photographs by Falguni Kapadia

At the heart of the Alsace region in France lies a beautiful town that makes your heart sing. Colmar is the spot that makes you fall head over heels in love

Brilliant splashes of colour on half-timbered houses is what makes Colmar breathe life into the cliche ‘picture-perfect’. But it’s the quaint lanes, stuffed with local shops and delicacies, the warmth of the Alsatian-speaking people and the stunning calmness that pervades the town that makes it other-worldly. A medieval setting, but without the drama of gnomes, toadstools and fairy dust, something Enid Blyton would use as inspiration for a magical novel series, perhaps. And yet, Colmar has lived in the time of practicality and realism of taxes and war and not of imaginative children’s tales. Ironically encouraging the toadstool shapes, the town tax at one moment in history was as per the surface area of the house on the ground; so the residents built homes narrower from the bottom and wider from the top.

As you walk through the lanes, you are privy to some of the most eclectic structures; also, the timber inside is protected and cannot be removed or cut down. Christina Perri’s song pops into my head — Darling, don’t be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years. I’ll love you for a thousand more — when I face centuries of European history in the bright vision that is Colmar.

Johann, our river guide, is beaming from ear-to-ear, with a sense of pride in the beauty of his hometown. As he guides us through Little Venice, down the serene ‘green area’ on the river (with a silent zone) and under tiny bridges so low that you need to bend triple, you can’t help but find his exuberance for the surrounding infectious. While he tries to nudge information out about your city, he knows nothing can match up to his. When you buy a house on the embankment (and they cost a pretty penny), you buy a part of the river, which keeps the tiny water body private. It flows through the garden district of the town, and was once used to transport produce. Tax seems to have been quite an evasive issue, because the boats in the town are also flat — there was a tax on the part of the boat submerged in the water, so they were designed just deep enough to bring back vegetables. And as a protective gesture, the precinct of the old town once had a railing to prevent boats from entering the town at night, a worthy safeguard, perhaps as someone entering this lush space may fall promptly in love and set roots forever?

The Rhine, which is now a partition between Germany and France, once formed a link between the two countries. Colmar, in the heart of the upper Rhine valley, turned French in the 17th century and changed nationality five times! In 1939, it was the first bit to be invaded by the Nazis and was the last important town to be freed in 1945, with practically no damage to boot. The town is a curious mix — though a happy one — of French and German culture, and the influences are evident everywhere. The ‘fashion street’ of the past has the motif carved in metal of the draper holding a stick to measure material. As you walk along, you can’t miss those of a lady holding a goose or a pig, with foie gras and sausage being popular products from the area. The latter can be tasted at a number of the local restaurants, including the multi-floor one, which has graphic art on the walls and is happily positioned in the city centre, called Le Fer Rouge. The Alsace region is the birthplace of foie gras, and the town is peppered with Michelin-starred restaurants, each rubbing shoulders with the other.

The favourite local son, Bartholdi, the famous creator of the Statue of Liberty in New York, has his mark everywhere, including a smaller replica in the city! Besides a museum dedicated to him, there is also a Bartholdi fountain where he is holding grapes, because he is supposed to have brought back grapes from Hungary for the local Pinot Gris. Wine, not surprisingly, is like water in Colmar, which has been the wine capital of the Alsace region since the Middle Ages, when it used to export to Switzerland. Large quantities of local produce were shipped along the river to Strasbourg, and then onwards along the Rhine to the Netherlands, moving on to England, Scandinavia and the Baltic coast. For the Domaine Martin Jund winery, Sebastian Jund, a fourth-generation viticulturist, shows us his cellar and takes us through the various in-house specialities. “Local wine represents the culture and people of the area.” Producing off 80 hectares of land, without pesticides and chemical products, they work with seven different grapes. White wine is the popular local drink of choice, we discover, and the hand-pressed grapes, stored in their own cellar, are sold mostly locally at around 50,000 bottles a year. We tasted four wines: the fruity Muscat sugarless, the spicy grape Gewurztraminer, the Sylvaner and a dry Riesling. As we swirl the home-grown liquid around in our glasses, we learn that they never drink alone, always with family. As Jund says, “With wine, it’s not about the right word or right place; it’s about having a good time and comforting your personality.”

That’s what the town is about — local character with a ‘country’ atmosphere. For instance, the tale associated with the watchtower in the iconic Gothic monument with a striking coloured tile roof, the Église Saint-Martin church. As legend goes, a watchman was required to stay in the tower for one year at a time and not come down. But as a lot is required to keep a man busy, besides keeping a lookout, he was also a shoe repairman…and footwear was sent up to be fixed via a pulley system! Stories and folklore abound, the town swells with the high notes of history. And as we wind down with dinner at La Maison des Têtes, we are surrounded by tables that reverberate with a sense of the familiar, and we can’t help but feel the beat of the infectious camaraderie that suggests lasting friendships.

La Maison des Têtes (House of Heads), a fine example of Renaissance architecture in the centre of Colmar, is actually built from the stones of the first wall in the town in the early 13th century. It is possibly the most famous local house, with intricate sculptural adornment — decorated as it is with 106 grimacing heads. The building that conveys ‘an idea of the wealth of the merchant class’ was restored in 2012. While many remains from the prehistoric town are around, you are not likely to find them in Colmar, probably because of the river that would have washed away the pieces. The facade of La Maison des Têtes was built in the early 17th century and one part was used for praying. Today, it opens into a charming hotel with sumptuous-sized rooms and a fine-dining restaurant. With history surrounding you, you find yourself at peace in this abode, a perfect place for a romantic sojourn, to dwell amid the thoughts of the past and the mystery of the present, to the sounds of classical and jazz music flooding the town during festival time and the sweetness of the jam made from the fruit of the wild rose tree.

There is a deep romanticism in Prague, the city that speaks of desire and timelessness….

I see myself living like a troll under the Charles Bridge — or having a conversation one bewitching night with one of the many baroque-style statues that line the bridge. Such is the draw of the city — as if witches that hide in the alleyways have brewed up a mysterious potion with their gnarled hands, the elixir that entices you to want to roam the cobblestone paths searching for truth on the darkened walls. History seems to lurk in those streets, sometimes furtive, often beckoning, suggestive of many moments of love, lust, hope and death. Time stops at the very moment in the past that your imagination sucks out of the grasp of history…as if the pages turn before you in the form of shadowy streets and pebble-stone corners.

One of the only cities in Europe offering the finest examples of every single architectural style, one would imagine this to be a city that would captivate minds seeking to paint dark rich strokes on canvas, extolling the virtues of a land that is like a dark maiden with a tattoo — neither fair nor blemish-free but full of promise. And yet, the nondescript galleries that are scattered all over the touristy parts of town are not plum with creativity. Surly faces, bored tones and a melange of artworks are what a tourist will encounter if seeking without knowledge of where to look. As I sit in the shady, tree-lined square, I see what others may have seen. Time etched on walls, celebrated by seasonal tourists and seasoned salesmen. Local kitsch and pop art history make their presence felt amid curios and street art.

The walls don’t disappoint. Taking to the streets from Prague Castle across the Old Town to Municipal House would unfold almost all the historical styles, including Gothic, baroque, eclectic historicism and art nouveau. Not to forget the quaint Jewish Quarter with well-preserved structures and historical synagogues. And within many of these beautiful buildings, monuments of history, you may find inspiration.

Across a beautiful park, taking the road behind the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, Prague, lies the Kampa Museum. One of the solid examples of artistic exploration where an explosion of thought can break through via a fine slice of contemporary musings available in the form of installations or canvases featuring 20th-century Czech and central European art. (Not to miss a gigantic chair sculpture by Magdalena Jetelová that was once washed away in the floods.) Culture goes pop with the Gallery of Art’s selection of Andy Warhol, Dali’s photographs and Alfons Mucha’s selected art nouveau works. They may be few and far between, but tucked away in the corners of the city seeped in mystery lie hidden gems. Works of art that only a person determined to seek is likely to find.

ART TALK

1. State institutions such as National Gallery offer a selection from Czech art beginning with medieval art up to recent days.

2. Private galleries offer mainly well-recognized Czech artists known as ‘1960s generation’ and young contemporary artists. Galleries are scattered around the city.

3. Many young artists, graphic designers and young professionals have their studio in Orco, Prague 7 which has become a kind of cultural hot spot. The Chemistry Gallery supporting young artists is also located there. The Hunt Kastner gallery run by two members of Prague’s expat community represents local artists, while also being instrumental in promoting local art abroad.

4. Museum Monatelli (MuMo) is one of only few private museums of fine arts in the Czech Republic and the the museum’s inaugural show in 2009 featured works by 21 international female artists.

5. Princely Collections, Lobkowicz Palace at Prague Castle is likely to become well-known, but for now, the knowledge of it remains with a few. The palace (within the Prague Castle) houses a newly-opened collection of music, art, antiques and arms drawn from centuries-old collections of the Lobkowicz noble family.

6. The Leica Gallery, showcases contemporary photography through the year.

7. Amoya: A not-for-profit project supporting young artists and a platform for Artbanka. The museum’s program takes place in the Baroque palace where visitors can familiarise themselves with the world of contemporary Czech and international art. FUTURA is another not-for-profit centre, with a residency program.

8. DOX Center for contemporary art, architecture and design is considered a dynamic cultural platform.

9. The David Cerny Tour: A 3-4 hour tour by a motor vehicle to explore the works of the famous Czech sculptor and controversial artist, curated by Katerina Sedlakova, a freelance tour guide also connected to the Mandarin Oriental, Prague.

10. Summer Shakespeare Festival: Every summer, from June through September, Europe’s oldest and biggest open-air theatrical event dedicated to the works of William Shakespeare has approximately 150 performances, but in the local Czech language.

Pondicherry has a perfect slice of life up for grabs. Where you can be charmed and bring back memories laced with fragrance and atmosphere

The hosts at La Villa are quite as charming as the property itself. Tucked away in a quiet corner of the French Quarter of Pondicherry, La Villa is a converted heritage colonial home, with trees that can tell a story that the distress-finish walls may not. One of the architects and designers, Tina Trigala (along with Yves Lesprit), is a Greek lady from France who has much to relate about the process of getting work done and building a space of this kind in India. Cajoling and learning the ways of the locals, she now is an old hand at it. After having built Villa Shanti with an obvious edge of Kitsch, La Villa is for a more refined and subtle palate. The thoughts are in the finer details, not glaring like Villa Shanti’s curtains made from lungis. The 19th century manor speaks of a distressed luxe — the kind of uber casual luxury that isn’t about ostentatious statues and inlay work, but is about the fine bath products, soft linen sheets, conceptual rooms and whimsical corners. Ancient materials and techniques like centuries-old bricks, lime plaster, colour cement flooring, and hand-made tiles from the villages of Tamil Nadu have found sustenance here with sophisticated western design.

From this world we step into the corridors of varied Pondicherry courtesy La Villa’s Sylvain Paquiry. With the grey buildings of Shri Aurobindo Ashram, to the pop yellow of the French institute (by appointment) with it’s beautiful gardens, rich but dusty library, serene and windy view from the top; to the curious boutiques and local stores that sell the wares of the place. A perfumed life with a wardrobe made entirely of things au naturel. We popped into: Janaki, Amethyst, Kalki and La boutique besides a few antique and curio shops.

As the waves crash on the belligerent ocean front, we watch a parade of people march wilfully along the promenade – looking like they belong, making us the observers and the cataloguers. Pondicherry is a study in architectural styles each quarter being typical of it’s type. One side of a dried-up canal is the “white side” or the French Quarter, while the other side is the Tamil Quarter, which also has a Muslim Quarter. And don’t be surprised to see the practically-vintage Ambassador car on the streets, as if stuck in time.

Make the road trip to Auroville, an enchanting organic hub of arts and culture with the Matri Mandir’s meditation centre, the tree with history, local markets, chic shops of exclusive local fare and for the long-stayers, workshops in a pure-play give-and-take format. In Pondicherry itself, for lovers of stationery (who often happen to be hoarders too) the world of handmade paper lies before you in an open mill ground with dated outhouses and a fair share of mosquitos. Beautiful paper and paper products are available for purchase, but the art of making the paper (via the waste from the nearby textile industry’s hosiery fabric) is enlightening.

Don’t leave without a hearty meal rounded up with the fresh mango sorbet (or the jaw-locking lemon sorbet) at Villa Shanti. A particular take-away besides the paper and perfumed giveaways? From the streets of Pondicherry to the serene poolside of La Villa: the most divine iced ‘Nanari’ tea. (Recipe: basil seeds, resin of almond tree (soaked in water), lemon juice, Syrup of nanari root.) It will not fail to cool the body in the soaring local climate.

Anyone who goes to Germany and skips Bavaria is really missing something. The Free State of Bavaria is what legends, folklore and tales of royal families are made of. It’s misty mountains, dark foliage and stunning countryside. While the Bavarian capital, Munich, provides the old-city charm, driving into the mountains is breathtaking. It’s also just across the Austrian border, easily accessible from Salzburg. Bavarian King Ludwig II’s royal castle Linderhof with beautiful parks and 19th century Romanesque-revival palace Neuschwanstein are splendid examples of the architecture and opulence of the era. The latter has appeared in many movies and was the inspiration for Disneyland’s Sleeping Beauty castle. With wonderful summer and ski resorts and spas dotting the Bavarian mountains, you are spoilt for choice. But for the easy proximity to Munich and the understated classiness of the resort, Bachmair Weissach is quite unparalleled. Much like the affluent Mumbaikars who would take off for the weekend to a luxe spot in the hills, the chic local set find themselves near Lake Tegernsee, enjoying the countryside and the untouched views.

Dashing wheels, sophisticated conversations and champagne murmurs add the ambience to the resort’s classy interiors and charming locale. Fifteen minutes from the beautiful lake, the property is chic rustic, with light wood interiors. The rooms, overlooking the mountains and near a bubbling brook, are spacious and plush, with a fine balance of muted pastel colours. From Etro bath accessories and clever tea bags with perforations to a Samsung tablet in the room for room service, the hotel serves up luxe in more ways than its fabulous fine dining restaurant (while the other restaurants are equally enjoyable and accommodating even to vegetarian requirements or children). The host and sommelier of Laulenzi is amiable and the five-course meal is ably wrapped up with a delicious dessert of strawberries floating in a bed of champagne teased with tempered white chocolate rolls. It’s easy to linger on and take in the well-dressed weekenders. Not to miss the many guests proudly turned out in the local dirndl (traditional dress).

The resort is designed to be child-friendly, with a monitored children’s activity centre and indoor sports. Nothing beats swimming in the temperature-controlled indoor pool and then dashing outside in the bracing cold to the steaming Jacuzzi. On the side of the Alps that suggests rain anytime, this is a perfect place to relax. On a fine day the watersports by the picturesque lake are not to be missed, along with the pebbled beaches, quaint town, boutiques and cafes. On Sundays you may be privy to a local music festival in the town square and a host of horse-driven carriages and vintage cars. Grabbing a local meal in one of Rottarch Egern’s cafes or restaurants, you may then stroll back through canopied trees and gardens to the welcoming resort.

In the reverberating party buzz of Prague is a property that combines history and serenity with charm

Indian movies like the just-released Hrithik Roshan and Katrina Kaif action masala,Bang Bang and Ranbir Kapoor’s Rockstar, and popular Hollywood films like Mission Impossible, Casino Royale and Les Miserables have found a way to highlight Prague’s beauty. The city has charm, substance and mystery. But it was for a very different reason that when a recent review asked me about my most memorable hotel stay in the last few months, I instinctively responded with the Mandarin Oriental, Prague. A location that brings the warmth of Asian hospitality along with meticulous attention to detail to the historical capital of Bohemia.

An Angelic PropertyThe hotel itself is classic and charming – housed in a former Dominican monastery with roots dating back to the 14th century. Part-Renaissance, part-Baroque and part-modern the hotel’s buildings represent over six centuries of architecture – while incorporating a large part of the outer wall of St Mary Magdalene, one of the oldest churches in Prague built on the site around 1330. While the hotel opened its doors in 2006 the property itself stands testimony to history and changes over the years.

You can’t miss the carefully framed and preserved moments of the past on the walls, including paintings of the monks playing peek-a-boo from behind the ornate curtains and excavated historic items visible on the private museum walk on the way to the spa. The latter is housed in a former Renaissance chapel, with a glass floor displaying the remnants of an old Gothic church. You can also optionally access it via an underground passageway (for privacy), and the treatment rooms are the former cells of the nuns!

The restaurant is made up of a line of five different houses, which can be noticed by unique ceilings as one moves from one room to another. Toward the back lies a mysterious flight of stairs leading to a vaulted wine cellar that can picks up on the dark romanticism of the city for a private dinner. The grand ballroom is made from a refectory, which is just another place for a wedding in their books!

As you explore the various bits of the hotel, you find yourself in the monastery lounge with an old cloister corridor and soaring ceilings and tall Baroque columns. Perfect for moments of quiet introspection is also the simple monastery garden within the property, which is singularly unique for Prague.

The Devil Is In The DetailsTheir on-site restaurant Essensia offers Asian flavours combined with modern Czech cuisine and does a fantastic Nasi Goreng. Also amazed to spy a version of our dosaon the menu (one of their chefs is Sri Lankan and can cook a mean curry or a South Indian biryani at a pinch). The staff is warm, attentive and helpful, finding creative ways to entertain children as well. The rooms have a kid-sized bathrobe and slippers for the young guests, with a singing Czech stuffed toy to ensure they never feel left out. As the festive Christmas season draws closer, they have a festive menu and Bohemian holiday packages lined up even as you experience the Christmas markets, live concerts and the buzz of the city under a blanket of snow.

The Sound of SilenceThe hotel is close to the river with a lovely park and a one of Prague’s noted art museums on one side; a short picturesque walk to the Charles Bridge on another, with the Prague Castle in it’s vicinity…making for a lovely setting. In fact, that is what the entire property is about – quiet peacefulness which is a marked contrast to the vibrant bustle of the city and its nightlife. Away from the busy main street but right in the picturesque Little Quarter in the heart of the city’s historic center, the spacious vaulted rooms and hallways echo the sound of peace handed down over the years. With tasteful décor, never over the top, always muted, the hotel has managed to maintain the spirit of the property and it’s history in a remarkable way.

When The Bells TollThere’s a lively list of things lined up for the last quarter of this year.

1. Design Block: Prague’s design and fashion week. (October 7 -12)
2. Strings of Autumn: A traditional finds experimental music festival mid October and early November.
3. Ruldof Firkusny Piano Festival (November)
4. Christmas markets that are spread out over the city, the most popular being the one in the Old Town Square (November and December)
5. Advent and Festive Live Concerts: Different parts of Prague, many within walking distance from the hotel, including those at the Czech Museum of Music, and Saint Nicolas Church.

How does one curate the hottest party destinations of the world? Simple – you ask the DJs. An all-male eclectic group of local and international music producers and disk jockeys pick some of their favourite places to party, some of which they have played at, often for hours at a stretch. Don’t be surprised to find the usual suspects and be willing to discover unheard-of secret spots: from the Praia Brava coastline of Brazil to the beaches of Goa; from electronic dance music and house to hip hop….

SLEEPLESS IN LAS VEGAS: DJ AQEEL

REVERED PARTY SPOT
Las Vegas. All the clubs are simply mind blowing with the best DJs in the world playing the most amazing music, in particular: Marquee, Hakkasan and XS.

IT ROCKS BECAUSE
Every one is here to party and have a good time… making it by far, the best city in the world.

MEMORABLE TAKE-AWAY
I learnt how to play Texas hold ’em poker!

NON-STOP PARTY METER
A night out normally lasts three or four hours; I go to Vegas every year without fail.

HIGH NOTES
It is mostly hip hop and house, but amazing music.

THE MOOD
The energy of Vegas, the city that never sleeps, is incomparable. No place can match up to it.

ON THE WISH LIST
I would love to play in Ibiza – another very cool party destination.

GETTING THERE
Virgin Atlantic flies into Las Vegas from Mumbai with a stopover in London (partially operated by Jet Airways).

Personal mantra: Expect the Unexpected.
DJ Aqeel is a prolific international DJ, and has played twice at the World Economic Forum in Davos (Swiss) representing India and entertaining the likes of Bill Clinton and Kofi Annan. As a producer, his remix albums have sold over seven million copies worldwide; he has also introduced the first ever DJ-owned record label in the country under the brand Power Play Records. He’s behind The Super Club in India, with nightclubs like Poison, Bling and Hype.

LIFE’S A BEACH IN GOA: NIKHIL CHINAPA

REVERED PARTY SPOT
Zanzibar, the beach shack on Baga beach, is one of a few. I’ve also done some amazing gigs in Manipal, Indore, Baroda and Bengaluru…there’s something special about playing to your home crowd.

IT ROCKS BECAUSE
It’s a magical feeling playing music on a beach, looking out at the sunset and the ocean. It’s therapeutic and sublime… makes you feel that all is well with the world (even if it’s not).

MEMORABLE MOMENT
The amazing crowd we had in 2007/2008. Those were undoubtedly some of the best years we’ve had at Zanzibar.

NON-STOP PARTY METER
Six hours a day for five days straight.

HIGH NOTES
Beach house music: it has an easy tempo and brings out the smiles.

GETTING THERE
Most local airlines fly into Goa daily from Mumbai and Delhi.

Personal mantra: Nothing brings people together like dance music.
MTV mascot, DJ, VJ, promoter, festival director, radio host, dance music fanatic, Nikhil Chinapa wears many hats. At MTV, Chinapa has hosted almost every show the channel has aired. Chinapa and his company, Submerge Music, is known for having been instrumental in bringing the most prominent DJs to India and is credited to be a pioneer for EDM in India. Married to DJ Pearl, he also hosts a popular weekly radio show called Together.

NON-STOP DANCING IN IBIZA: ANISH SOOD

COOLEST PARTY LOCATION
Definitely Ibiza (the third largest Balearic island in Spain).

IT ROCKS BECAUSE
It has a phenomenal vibe. Clubbing drives the entire island’s revenue and everything around it is designed to ensure you have the best nightlife experience ever – with the scale of the clubs and lineups. It is a pilgrimage every serious dance music fan must make at some point of time in their lives.

MEMORABLE MOMENTS
The amazing sunrise and sunset views.

NON-STOP PARTY METER
I was at one party from 3 p.m. until 5 a.m., so that’s 14 hours straight!

MUSICAL NOTES
Different clubs play different styles, though it’s all primarily dance music, ranging from commercial and funky house to deep house and techno.

THE MOOD
Loud music, colourful drinks and a lot of pretty people everywhere.

COMPARABLE PLACES
I hear Las Vegas has now become the new Ibiza.

NOSTALGIC TRACK
The Keys by Matt John.

VISIT
June-September.

ALSO LOVE PARTYING AT
Shanghai for the super vibrant and diverse cultural atmosphere it has, Amsterdam during the dance event week and Berlin for its industrial techno clubs.

GETTING THERE
Fly into Spain on Jet Airways or any European carrier (with a stopover in Europe). From Madrid or Barcelona, the local carrier, Iberia, flies regularly into Ibiza.

Personal mantra: It’s all about stage presence and audience interaction.Anish Sood, 23, has releases on labels around the world, playing over 70 gigs a year, selling out the biggest clubs and festivals including Sunburn, NH7 Weekender and Invasion Festival and performs alongside some of the biggest names in dance music. His debut EP Wanna Be Your Only Love was aired on Armin van Buuren’s A State Of Trance and a music video released nationwide on VH1. Hear him live 6th – 8th of this month at the Enchanted Valley Carnival, Aamby Valley City.

LIVE THE MOMENT IN WARUNG: DJ DEMI

REVERED PARTY SPOT
Warung (South of Brazil, just north of Florianopolis).

IT ROCKS BECAUSE….
It’s an Indonesian hut, warung, along the Praia Brava coastline with 3,000 of the most beautiful people spilling onto the beach, dancing like there’s no tomorrow. The open-air structure at the back of the venue is also in line with the sunrise with a breathtaking view. Not to forget the beaches, the food, the weather, the hospitable people. And hang-gliding!

MEMORABLE MOMENT
I was performing for their New Year’s Eve show, and I didn’t know that this night in Brazil is celebrated with everybody dressed in white, a superstitious belief to symbolise a fresh start, a new chapter, a new year. I’ll never forget the view that particular night when I walked into the DJ booth and was faced with a sea of white in front of me that stretched as far as the eye could see towards the horizon. I stepped up in view of thousands of people, dressed like the ‘grim reaper’.

NON-SPOT PARTY METER
A whole weekend!

THE MOOD
There’s a strong sense of ‘living’ in the moment especially in the southern regions of Brazil. At the same time, I’ve also felt at my most calm and serene state of being. There’s an infectious vibe that reverberates all around you.

NOSTALGIC TRACK
Playing Aztec Knights of the Jaguar at Warung reduced me and pretty much everyone in the club to tears.

VISIT
Anytime between November through March.

ON THE WISH LIST
A six-week music festival called Kazantip, which is held on the northern coast of the Black Sea in Ukraine near the Crimean peninsula. Everyone I know has come back blown away by the experience.

GETTING THERE
European airlines like Lufthansa will take you as far as Rio de Janeiro, after which the local TAM airline will fly into Florianópolis. Warung is approximately one hour by car from there.

Personal mantra: To give you what you want, not what you expect.
London-based DJ and producer, DEMI, has worked his way up from the open-air venues in Bali in 2000 to the milestone achievement of a Radio One Essential Mix with the SOS project; with two critically acclaimed SOS compilations Balance 013 & Ministry of Sound presents SOS; along with a sonic collage of the seminal deep house label, Alola Record’s rich back catalogue entitled Sounds like Alola Volume 2.

What is a wedding but meticulously planned theatre for those in attendance, finds an aunt who helps arrange her niece’s destination soirees. A peek into her diary…

Going to a destination wedding is always buckets of fun. Planning one – not so much. I recently had to help my sister plan one at an exotic Thai locale. The beaches are fantastic, we’ve heard. The waves under our already-wrinkled toes, the sun on our already-tanned skin; well it’s what children want nowadays. Vows by the sunset and chiffon frocks instead of Swarovski lehengas. Poor Tarun, Sabya and Manish – they are going to have to work doubly hard to sustain their bridal couture business. And all of us – having to go shopping for things that steer clear of our ankles and don’t have a shimmer on them. How plebian it is to have a subtle wedding. It’s a good thing everyone won’t be there….

The guest list – well one mustn’t go there. The wedding is quite nearly called off because of the guest list. It seems silly, but there it is. It reaches the point where there is some vicious discussion about killing off some relatives in a timely fashion. The parents have a pretty tight list of invitees – it’s true, they do want to invite their tailor and the step-aunt that lives in Kenya whom no one has ever met, but then you can only do the daawat once in a lifetime for your only child, right? (Even if it goes to a second marriage – generally the sho-sha is generously muted.) And really – the tailor has known the bride longer than the groom – he has been stitching her clothes since the time she has been in diapers – so who deserves to be there more?

With the parents arguing over how many weddings they had been invited to and attended, the bride and groom insisting that it is their moment and only people they really know and care about should be there; as most things do, it all comes down to the bill. After much bloodshed, tears of betrayal and the drama to befit a Balaji Diwali special, they whittle the guest list down to 300. Of which 150 are under 30 and 75 of whom are foreigners from places I can’t pronounce, much less find on a map. So that leaves just a few of us to carry on the tradition of bitching out the other side, gasping with a faux scandalised air at the youngsters and weeping at the vidaai.

The wedding ceremony is so quaintly poised on the water, while a dress circle seat is reserved for us on the waterfront. Along with the little booklet to translate the shlokas and vows, the considerate family has also organised binoculars for the audience. It’s nice – we have our own space, can peer into the binos when we decide to catch what’s going on – in between bites of Thai cake and spicy gossip – and give the family their privacy. That way the entire occasion remains a rather private affair – if having only 300 at an Indian wedding isn’t private enough. Tiny speakers dot the waterfront, where we can hear what the Pandit is saying – noting the large number of non-desis in attendance, he ups his tricks by adding flair and doing his own little broken-English translations. After all, what is a wedding but a meticulously planned theatre for those in attendance?

It’s all very well now, but getting Panditji here has been a task in itself. Now I’m quite proud of this – I organised this part of the journey. Panditji couldn’t travel to the destination alone, so I figured the saffawala (person who ties the turbans over the men’s heads) could accompany him. You mustn’t ask me whether they wanted to travel business class or not, but it is a special feat that I convinced them that economy is altogether better and safer. It turns out that the saffawala is quite a fellow. He’s rather in demand for this specialised art, and is hopping off to America before the ceremony has even ended. So Panditji and the saffawala end up having a favourable journey to the destination – it’s all in the stars, after all. I think they are now friends on Facebook

I need to track down the missing wedding photos – it was quite a sweet affair after all, what with the jello-shots and the beach raves. I couldn’t feel my toes after a point of time. Three months later, the photographer hasn’t sent us the photos yet. He is quite a spiffy number – doing mood shots and natural light silhouettes. I know it sounds like a condom ad, but photography these days is very different from our layered make-up, bright lights, hands-held-together poses, bling-and-click moments. It’s a bit wanton nowadays, to be honest. After my mother harassed me for photos, I began trying to track down this hotshot photographer. It seems he has been all over Europe attending functions and clicking away that he hasn’t had time to get home and regroup! So after basking in the Riviera sunshine, he has promised to send some over to us via ISendYou.com or something like that. Is it a specialised (and expensive) courier service? Will have to see how one can pick the photos up from there. Must share them with you sometime.

It’s best if your kids get trained on home ground to face the intricacies of a splashy European holiday, as you travel in season with the jet setters of the world. But while tossing around the Mediterranean waves, are Indian kids missing out on knowing their own turf, asks Sitanshi Talati-Parikh

It took a leisurely Sunday brunch conversation at Café Zoe, a new Manhattan-style eatery in South Mumbai – exposed brick, metal beams et al – to remind us of what makes an Indian Summer. For those without school-going children, vacations are all about nipping off to the next hotspot all year round. Children tend to make social lives non-existent and travel plans seasonal. In my time, childhood summer vacations expanded into long sunny and muggy days of reading, swimming, learning tennis; the lucky ones travelling to Disney World or coral sighting around the Reef, catching spring on one end and autumn on the other. Now, with the advent of the International Baccalaureate educational system (IB) – prudently adopted by the crème de la crème schools of the country – the concept of a summer vacation (matching the international breaks around June-July) if not travelling abroad, would be incredibly difficult days of watching the rain pelt away and probably kicking around some slimy mush.

No sensible parent would make the mistake of keeping the kids homebound during these difficult months. And so, as a matter of course, summer breaks have changed dramatically to be Riviera cruising or Tuscany villa-bathing. Indians and their little tots are quite in with the European jet set, hopping onto a chartered yacht for a soiree or catching a rave in Ibiza after the kids are snoozing. Not surprisingly, the IB system fits in beautifully with the LV-armed maternistas’ (mothers who are fashionistas or even simply, yummy mummies) idea of a chic vacation. The Far East is suitable for a quick turn during Easter, Europe and its many sophisticated charms make for a cultural rendezvous in the summer break, and Latin America and its mysterious Incas and Brazilian parades fit in quite neatly during Christmas and New Year.

The world is the child’s oyster and you may actually counter: for someone who must surely play a part in global politics of the future in some capacity, is it not important to start the education young? To that effect, it might just be ideal to switch Sunday brunches from chilli cheese dosa to whole-wheat apricot pancakes. From the local Udipi guy to Pali Village Café. Ironically, what we New Age Indians love about these new café hotspots is their intrinsic non-Indianness. You find yourself celebrating the escape from what is India into a safe haven of faux cobblestones, rustic interiors and Latino soundtracks. In any case, it is wise to alter their (the children’s) taste buds to suit the vacation spots, for most ease of use. After all, no self-respecting Burberry mum will allow for her child to demand dal-chawal in Marbella. Popularised by Zoya Akhtar’s 2011 film Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara, children look forward in tangy anticipation to the La Tomatina festival in Bunõl as a wonderful cultural experience to whet an appetite for a freshly stomped meal. It’s not surprising then, that there’s an unnatural buzz in the air about Starbucks finally coming to India this year and Australian coffee house Di Bella making its foray into desi turf. Does one actually expect those little Gucci shoes to prance into a genuinely unpainted local Iranian café when there is an option of a peppermint frappuccino in a Christmas-carol touting, chicly hand-painted coffee shop?

The kids are wonderfully globalised, with curios for their rooms from every part of the world, and possibly a cultural hangover which can be passed off as jet lag. It is unlikely that Mount Abu or Meenakshi fit into the grand scheme of things, unless it’s a part of a school field trip. India is exactly that – a field trip, quite like going to the zoo or bird sanctuary or a museum: to be looked at with wonder, noted for a history or sociology class. You turn away with the first roots of cynicism as you wonder why our monuments can’t be as nicely kept as the ones we see abroad. You come away with a sense of loss and a protective distaste for the sights and smells of the country that will possibly stay with you a lifetime. The same smells that writers of the diaspora sigh about dreamily form a noxious accent to the lives of those who live here. Would we want our children to grow up fondly reminiscing about the urea-scented trips to the Elephanta caves, when they could deliberate on the Mona Lisa’s mystical smile over a Parisian pain au chocolat?

As it turns out, India is merely an option – or more rightly, Indianness is merely an option. It’s like a home menu that reads: Thai Monday, Mexican Tuesday, Italian Wednesday, Indian Thursday and Hibachi grill Friday. It’s not just about the food; it’s about looking at an Indian life. Cosmopolitan India is about rapidly assimilating the lifestyle of the world and making the city more palatable. It is no longer the expats who crave a Chilean sea bass and hop across to their local gourmet restaurant. It is the Indian who craves something regularly non-Indian to make him stay sane in a city that exhausts him with its grey clouds of monotony. If you can’t live abroad, at least the proverbial ‘Chef’ Mohammed can bring ‘abroad’ to your neighbourhood. There may have been a time when Indians just wanted to be cool and try new things. Today, Indians want international flavour with a sense of permanence. Indianness is merely chutney on the Mediterranean focaccia: in turn, layered, dipped into, hidden or wiped away.

Maybe in spirit, a city-dweller is a restless species, an eternal traveller, one who is looking for escape from home before he returns home. Maybe we just need to slow down: the pace of the city – with our always-online work, rapid-fire social connections perpetually drain us, and we need to be recharged often if not sooner. Our children face it from the word ‘Go’ – with their language classes for six-month-olds, baby gyms for nine-month-olds, and birthday parties every alternate day. Maybe it is a genetic illness we are passing along in growing measures down generations – that we can’t quite stop planning the next getaway before the first break has ended. It keeps the adrenalin pumping, keeps up the excitement to land at Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport (or your own desi equivalent) with a spring in your step, just brimming with the knowledge that soon you’ll be back here, taking off to another place of intrigue.

An acquaintance points out that her sister has spent five years in the coolest, hippest, buzziest city in the world – New York, and yet, can’t wait to get away occasionally. So maybe it is less that we tire of India and more that we tire in general. It’s just that when we do get weary, we look far away for solace – wine country, beaches of Croatia…. What’s wrong with a neatly reworked heritage place – think Neemrana – in the nostalgic Matheran of our own childhood to build the memories of our children’s youth? As the desis would say it – though I doubt they would be couture (kosher) – ‘Culture ka culture ho jayega, aur holiday ka holiday.’